Alfred, You're a Star
by Raeving.onwards
Summary: Arthur Kirkland regrets his decision to have stayed in the U.S., but something, someone is making him stay. He decides he doesn't mind Wisconsin so much after all. USUK
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I do not own hetalia**_

* * *

_**/On the field I remember you were incredible**_  
_** Hey shut up, hey shut up, yeah**_  
_** On the field I remember you were incredible**_  
_** Hey shut up, hey shut up, yeah **_  
_** On the match with the boys, you think you're all alone**_  
_** With the pain that you drain from love**_  
_** In a car with a girl, promise me she's not your world**_  
_** Cause Andy, you're a star/ -Andy you're a star, The killers** _

* * *

Arthur Kirkland was possibly the sanest person to ever work at Lambeau Stadium. At least, that's what he thought to himself nearly every day as he pulled in for work. Paying off college loans, he would promise himself as the thousands of Wisconsinites flooded this madhouse. Need to pay off the loans, he would mumble under his breath when his audacious French boss would flirt with him. I'm in debt, he would say as he would clean up after the drunk American idiots. But of course he knew this wasn't the only reason he stayed. He stayed because, while the rest of those sweaty rugby players left the stadium straight after the game, one of them always stayed behind. One of them, Alfred F. Jones, came to Arthur's little pub inside the stadium after every game. He had a drink or two. And then he left. And that was easily the best part of Arthur's day.  
It was nearing that time, Arthur realized. He dumped the rest of the empty soda cups into the rubbish can, brushed his apron off, and tried to look nonchalant as he wiped down an already clean glass.

"Hey." A cocky smile and mussed blond hair entered Arthur's line of vision. "One Budweiser, please."

This was it. Arthur was going to do it. He was going to talk to him. He set the beer on the counter and cleared his throat nervously.

"You did well out there today."

"You're British." said the other, cocking his head and furrowing his eyebrows.

"So?" Arthur snapped, turning away.

"Hey," Alfred reached over the counter and very slightly tapped his shoulder. "No need ta get all angry. I just never heard ya talk before."

"Thank you for coming, leave the money on the counter."

Arthur could sense that the American hesitated for almost five minutes before sighing, placing something on the bar, and walking away. His shoes clicked all the way to the door, paused, then continued to echo down the hallway. _Bollocks_, Arthur thought as he scooped up the money and sighed. He always did this, he always pushed people away. The towheaded Englishman looked forlornly at the bills scrunched in his fist and accepted the fact that this very well may be the last time he ever saw Alfred F. Jones, star rookie quarterback...up close, that is.


	2. Chapter 2

To Arthur's surprise, a man sat down at his bar what must've been two hours after the game ended.

"Hey. One Budweiser, thanks!"

With a start, he realized this man was none other than Alfred. He set the beer on the counter and watched as the football player sipped it. He wasn't wearing his uniform, but rather wore a clean white shirt and jeans.

"What're you starin' at?"

Arthur blushed. He_ had_ been staring, hadn't he?

"I've just never seen you out of your jersey," he blurted. The quarterback laughed- a wonderful, booming sound that sent chills all the way to Arthur's toes.

"Tons a' people haven't."

There was a moment where Arthur shifted awkwardly, looking for something to say, before mindlessly repeating:

"You did well today."

Alfred cocked his head. "We lost."

"Yes..." Arthur frantically searched for words. "But, er, you did it wonderfully?"

Another loud laugh.

"You're funny. What's your name?"

"Arthur." he said, flushing. "Arthur Kirkland."

"Why don't you sit?"

A strong hand patted the stool next to him. An invitation. An outstretched hand. Was this really happening? Arthur sat, hoping didn't come in for a drink.

"So what're ya doin in Wisconsin, Artie?"

Arthur wanted to correct him, but the little endearing moniker wormed it's way into his chest and sat there.

"Went to university here. Decided not to go back," he brought his green eyes to meet Alfred's chilling blue ones.

"Kinda a weird place for you. A football stadium?"

"I don't mind it."

Alfred was watching Arthur with such intensity, the Englishman was afraid his sweater vest might catch fire.

"What?" he barked- intrigued, but irritated. Arthur wondered what went on in this handsome young man's head.

"Well. Wouldn't you rather do somethin you love?"

The two locked eyes, unwilling to back down. Alfred's were sparkling blue, and they almost sucked Arthur in, inviting him to stay for a while...

"Salut." came a rather obnoxious voice from the door.

"Hello, Francis." Arthur sighed at his boss's impeccable timing.

"And who is this? Alfred F. Jones, in the flesh?"

Something crossed Alfred's face- regret, bitterness? -before he turned around and nodded good-naturedly.

"I was just leavin'. G'night, Artie."

Arthur watched Alfred leave, his loud, naïve voice echoing in his mind. Do something he loved? He hadn't thought about his dreams since...when was

the last he thought of his ambitions?

* * *

Alfred slammed his head against the edge of his steering wheel, phone pressed to his ear.

"And just like that, his boss came in and you left?" His brother's voice crackled incredulously over the line.

"I'm tellin' ya, Mattie. I could've stayed there all night. I just wanna know more about him."

"Alfred's got a crush," Matthew sang with a giggle.

"Shut up, Matt. How about your internet penpal, how is _he_?"

"You'll never believe it. He doesn't live here in Canada, he lives in Wisconsin!"

"Weird." Alfred started up his car, deciding he should probably head home. "That's why you shoulda moved out here with me 'n Dad."

"Eh, hockey's more my sport than football." He chuckled. "I'll talk to you later, alright, Al?"

"Bye, Mattie."

And with that, the American headed home, anxiously awaiting the next game in which he would see this odd little Englishman.

* * *

There was much to do before a game- stock things in the back, tidy up the pub, that sort of thing. Arthur ran through the motions carefully, knowing after his little drink with Alfred his boss would probably skin him alive if he was out of it today (or worse, ask him on a date...again). All the while, he was staring out the window and groping in his memory for his dream, his ambition. He knew it was somewhere in there; buried under the good sense and taxes there were still stars and sparkles. There was a reason he went to college, a goal behind it, he was sure. Just when he was sure he was going to get it, people began to pour into the stadium and his pub. He put those silly things aside and prepared for the game ahead.

In the locker room, Alfred was doing the same...preparing for the game, that is. He tugged on his jersey over his bulky pads and smeared black paint and sunscreen on his face. He didn't talk to anyone. He went over the playbook in his head, stretched, and gave himself a pep talk. The Giants. No biggie. You've got this, Alfred. As he entered the fields, he looked not to the crowds but instead to a a dark window just to his left. He let out a wild grin, and winked.

Arthur jumped back from the window, heart pounding. No, he was probably winking for the cameras. He couldn't have seen him, couldn't have known he watched the beginning of every game from the seclusion of that window.

"You okay, buddy?" said one of the men sitting at a nearby table.

He realised he was clutching the fabric over his heart and smoothed his shirt embarrassedly.

"Fan-bloody-tastic," he growled, snatching a rag and scrubbing the bar like it would reveal the secrets of life.

"Were you arguing with the counter again, mon cher?" The Frenchman's breath was hot on Arthur's neck what seemed like only seconds later.

"I suppose." he mumbled, turning as calmly as possible to face his boss, plastering a smile on his face. In all fairness, Francis was rather handsome. He was hardly taller than Arthur, with sultry blue eyes, wavy ash-blond hair that grazed his shoulders, and stubble that dotted his chin. He was just very...up front.

"You have been doing well lately." His French accent made the 'h' in 'have..  
disappear.

"Thank you. Sir." Arthur added as an afterthought. Francis was only barely older than he, but Arthur had to remind himself to be polite.

"And you are making... acquaintances... with the players," Francis hinted with a wink. "Also good."  
Arthur could think of nothing to say to that, so he just kept eye contact with this annoying French man, wishing he'd leave.

"To celebrate, I believe we need proper drinks. Wine and such, oui? My treat, mon chou."  
Arthur spluttered, realizing they were the only two left in the bar. All others had left to watch the game.

"I'm rather busy tonight. My apologies. Perhaps some other time," he denied cordially. Francis tsk-ed and shook his head.

"Some day." he smiled saccharinely, turning on the heel of his boot to leave.

"Some day."

* * *

Alfred fought his way through the bulge of paparazzi that had somehow made their way onto the field.

"Alfred!" came from all sides of him, followed by random questions, microphones shoved in his face. Too much, too much stimuli. He forced a smile onto his face, just nodding and pushing his way through. He was almost there when a question rang with his brain.

"Wait, say that again?" Alfred paused. A young reporter, no older than twenty-five, stepped forwards. The others looked jealous.

"A girlfriend, Mr. Jones?" she repeated boldly.

Alfred's eyes lingered on his favorite window for longer than necessary. Through it he could see a familiar Briton, his mouth an 'o' of surprise.

"No girlfriend." he said with a smirk.

"Goodnight, everyone."

The paparazzis' eyes followed his gaze, and questions erupted out of them. Only the girl who started the riot stayed silent. She had a curious look on her face: the eye in the center of the hurricane.

Alfred calmly walked into the locker room. Maybe he'd be sorry for this later, but right now he had his eye set on something...someone...


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Wow, what a response. I see each and every one of you, and I appreciate you :) I finished this fic off about 6 months ago, but I hadn't gotten around to posting it anywhere. So, those first two chapters were the old, unedited versions, just so they could be up there. But then came the reviews and the follows! I felt kind of pressured to fix up Chapter 3 a little bit, now that there were people actually seeing it. Also, I've always wanted to go back to Wisconsin- I have a lot of family up there. That being said, none of these places are geographically accurate with Green Bay, besides Lambeau Stadium and maybe Lake Michigan. I'm excited to see my Wisconsinites' reactions. Enjoy~**

* * *

Chapter 3:

"And so Mattie **covers** himself in maple syrup," Alfred giggled."And rolls around in the leaves!"

Arthur laughed, taking a sip from the glass in front of him. It felt good to really laugh. He had been doing it more often now that he and Alfred had been meeting nearly every day for a fortnight- not just game day- for a drink and perhaps some dinner. Today they were in a small pub-and-restaurant that was refreshingly not Arthur's own. It was rather empty, and the two leant on the dark, smooth wood of the bar, drinking beer and talking. Alfred never failed to amuse the other with his wild tales of his family. He was even making Arthur open up about his own family, which was by far not the easiest task. But the Englishman felt there was a subject they had not covered.

"Your brother sounds sweet. Is he gay...also?" Arthur said carefully, avoiding the quarterback's eyes and tracing the rim of his beer with a dainty finger. The two had avoided the touchy word for so long now.

"Ah, we're twins, ain't we?" Alfred flushed and watched his beer as well. "Yeah. He is."

The two sat in quiet for a moment. Little did Arthur know, Alfred actually didn't mind these little silences. He tended to fill silence with loud words, but with Artie it seemed almost natural to just listen. It was different.

"An' your brother?" he replied curiously. "Oliver, right?"

"Haven't heard from him in awhile. He, Chloe and I had a falling out a while back." He shut his eyes, bushy eyebrows knitting together.

"What happened?" Alfred asked in a small way.

"John..." Arthur opened his eyes suddenly, deciding on a subject change. "So when is the next game, love?"

"The next game's an away game. Day after tomorrow, with the 49ers. In California." He added at the slightly puzzled look on Arthur's face.

"Oh."

"So, since tonight's my last night before I leave...how 'bout we go on a walk?"

Arthur looked for excuses not to, but all he could see was Alfred's blue eyes boring into his.

"Well, alright."

It was chilly out in the fall Wisconsin air, but the two pushed onwards, wandering along the streets of Green Bay. They both cast nervous, furtive glances at each other, unsure as to whether or not they should hold hands or cuddle or even let their arms brush. But Alfred was impatient for this sort of first date awkwardness.

"C'mon," he grabbed Arthur's hand, dragging him forwards.

"Where are we-?" Arthur stumbled over his shoes clumsily as he tried to keep up with his long-legged date.

"It's a surprise."

Eventually their pace mellowed, and Arthur was able to enjoy fully how perfectly his rather lithe hand fit into Alfred's burly one. He trusted this quarterback enough to lead them through multiple alleyways and deserted streets until finally they emerged in a small park.

"Close your eyes." Alfred said.

"That's bloody ridiculous!" Arthur protested, crossing his arms.

"Close em!" Alfred warned with a smirk. Curious, Arthur did as he was told. He was led gently over tree roots and down pathways until he felt the path opening up a little; there weren't any more trees shading them. He was sat down on a bench and sensed Alfred sitting next to him.

"Open."

Of course, the first thing he saw was Alfred- grinning widely -but his eyes were drawn to the light in the direction the bench was facing. He looked, and immediately forgot any qualms. They appeared to be on a slight hill, and down below you could see a large expanse of Green Bay. Just beyond the yellow lights of the buildings was a sparkling piece of Lake Michigan, reflecting a mix of the city lights and the night sky. Arthur imagined what each light belonged to; some to streetlights, some to houses, businesses, warehouses...maybe the lights in the stadium were on today as well. He couldn't pick anything out that looked like them. He thought about the families going to bed and flicking off the lights, although their darkened window would never dent all the light pouring from the city...like one firefly flickering out amongst a swarm of them. If a picture was worth a thousand words, this view was worth a million.

Alfred looked proudly between Green Bay and Arthur, waiting for his approval.

"Wow," breathed the Englishman, "This is...beautiful."

"I like to come up here to think. Peaceful, right?"

Alfred cleared his throat after Arthur's lack of reply and stretched his arms nonchalantly. At the end of the stretch his arm landed on Arthur's shoulders. The two of them locked eyes and giggled at the teenager-ish move. Arthur moved closer on the bench, leaned into Alfred's warm leather jacket, and watched the night sky and blinking city lights.

"Arthur?"

"Hm?"

"Look at me."

Arthur brought his eyes to meet Alfred's again. Alfred smiled crookedly.

"I keep forgettin your eyes are green," he mused, holding their gaze. Their combined breath fogged slightly in the biting air, creating little puffs above their heads. Arthur shivered.

"It's cold." he mumbled, almost to himself. Alfred pulled him closer. Their noses bumped, and they smiled in shy unison, never breaking eye contact.

"Are we going to kiss?" Arthur broke the silence again.

"Do you want to?"

"Very much so."

They stared for another moment before Alfred rose a hand to Arthur's cheek, very slowly sliding it to his neck. Arthur leaned slightly forwards, but Alfred was already a step ahead, and their foreheads bumped. Eyes fluttered shut, a chuckle was shared, and finally their lips met. At first it was tentative, exploratory. Finally the kiss grew stronger, hands grew restless, and breaths became ragged. After what seemed like forever, they parted. There wasn't a need for words- obviously none could describe what was happening in each others' heads, but they turned instead once more to the calm sight of Green Bay.

The lights were like the stories Alfred told him. Each were their own window into someone else's life, someone else's family and their past. The more Arthur talked with Alfred, the more he could see the light reflected in the other's blue eyes, the more he could see the stories he told about his home and his job.

Arthur decided that this city really wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

Alfred picked up his phone as soon as he walked into his house.

"Mattie?"

"Hi Al."

"Mattie, we kissed."

"No."

"Yes."

"And?"

"Fireworks," sighed Alfred. He could hear Matthew squeal girlishly on the other end of the line. Alfred laughed, set his keys on a table, and took a flying leap onto his custom leather couch, flicking on his wide screen TV for background noise. It was a rather nice house, only the best for a star quarterback, but it was big and lonely. His voice echoed off the high ceilings when he spoke again.

"I took him to that spot on the hill."

"Heart-melting," Matthew swooned. "So do I get to be best man?"

"Isn't there a saying where you're **not** s'pposed to pick out a wedding cake on the first date?" Alfred snorted, but his heart skipped a beat.

"Whatever. But in all seriousness, you shouldn't be getting involved in a time like this, eh?"

"I know, I know. I just have a feeling about this one. Sorry to call so late, Mattie."

"If you hadn't, I would've been deeply offended."

"I figured."

"Sleep well, brother dearest."

"Night."

Alfred set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. He couldn't wait to come home after the game and see his Arthur again. His Arthur. Smiling, he tugged off his shirt and made his way with a yawn to his bedroom, trying to ignore the way his heart twisted with happiness when he thought of Arthur. Artie. His Artie. His, and only his.

* * *

Arthur floated on his back in the middle of a warm blue sky, worry-free and a million miles above the ground. As he looked down he watched Green Bay get smaller and smaller, and just like that he was flying past North America and over the Atlantic Ocean. As he reached Europe, though, the clouds became heavy and dark. They squeezed him and pushed him and finally rained him down to London. He screamed as he fell, landing in the street and narrowly dodging a car as it zoomed towards him. Arthur backed up quickly out of the street, but immediately bumped into someone on the busy sidewalk.

"Oi, mate, watch where you're going!" the man snarled. "What are you, a Yank?"

Arthur gaped at the man, with his rough stubble, uncombed brown hair, shabby coat, and rum bottle held in hand.

"J-John?" he gasped, reaching out to touch his brother. "John, is that you?"

"Who else would it be, arse face?" the other snarled in return, turning his cheek away from Arthur's touch. "Y'know, you've got right bloody bollocks coming back here."

Arthur frowned. "I don't-?"

"Oh yeah, I know all about your stupid boyfriend," John laughed bitterly. "You'd better pick your allegiance, and pick it fast."

"John, what are you talking about?"

"Are you American?" he leant in so that Arthur could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Or are you English?"

"I'm English, of course!" Arthur replied, eyebrows knitting themselves together.

"Wrong answer," hissed John. He pushed past the blond and stepped into the street. Horns honked and blared but the man kept going until-

"John, no!" Arthur shrieked.

A double decked bus barreled past, and as soon as it was out of the way Arthur could see the red heap of flesh that was his oldest brother smeared across the street...

Arthur woke with a start, tears streaming down his face and fists clutching the sheets with white knuckles. He knew what he had to do. Grabbing his passport, green card, and wallet, he pulled on his pants and ran out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

Alfred slumped down in his seat in the airplane, avoiding eye contact with everyone as he had since the game. He had fumbled the ball. No, he hadn't just fumbled, he had done it _twice_. They had lost miserably to the 49ers. He put his head in his hands and sighed. He had let his team down, his state down, his Arthur down. Arthur. Alfred brightened at the thought of him, but the good mood escaped soon like air out of a balloon. His Arthur would be disappointed. The first away game, and he'd lost. As the plane shifted Alfred back in his seat, taking off into the sky, he watched the ground get smaller and wondered what Arthur was doing.

* * *

Arthur was pacing in his apartment, as a matter of fact, calculating the number of minutes until Alfred had said he'd be home. Three-hundred and eighteen, he thought with a glance at his watch. That isn't long at all. So little time. What would he say? Would Alfred even want to talk? He'd probably be in a bad mood after the loss. Maybe what Arthur had done last night after the dream had been in vain. Three-hundred and seventeen. Bollocks, that was practically a heartbeat from now. Yes, Alfred had lost, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to be disappointed. Not even in the least. Sure, the emotion had flashed across his mind fleetingly, but at Alfred's sad face staring miserably into the cameras, any and all negative thoughts had left him. Which was odd, considering he was quite the pessimist. Three-hundred and sixteen. There was so much to do, so little time. All he wanted to do was hold Alfred in his arms and tell him it was going to be alright. Three-hundred and fourteen. How many seconds was that? 18,840?

He couldn't wait that long.

* * *

"I was jus' havin' a dream 'bout you," Alfred mumbled tiredly into his cell phone, rubbing his eyes and sitting up on his couch. He had crashed as soon as he got home. "Sorry I fell asleep."

"It's perfectly fine, love," Arthur said quietly.

Alfred tried to read into the meaning behind the words, but he was lost. "D-do you still want to go out tonight?"

"Hm. Well, how are you feeling?".

"Okay..." Alfred said slowly, deciphering Englishman's tone unsuccessfully. "And you?"

"Cold," replied Arthur.

"Cold?" But the doorbell rang at that moment. "One sec, someone's at the door."

To Alfred's surprise, when he opened the door, he saw a blonde man with a phone pressed to his ear and wry smile on his face.

"Artie!"

Phones were knocked out of hands as Alfred tackled him in a hug.

"I...I thought..." he began.

"No, I'm sorry for showing up like this," Arthur looked embarrassed, as if suddenly regretting the idea. "I was just worried about you."

"Are you kidding?! I thought you'd be mad!"

"Mad? For what, a silly loss?" Arthur placed his hands consolingly on Alfred's cheeks, but realised at his face it was obviously the wrong thing to say.

"Everyone else is mad," he mumbled.

"Not me."

As if to show him, Arthur carefully pressed his lips to Alfred's. After a moment the two parted and Alfred smiled shyly.

"Why don't you come inside?"

"R-really?" Arthur blinked. "Aren't you the least bit curious how-"

"Nope."

"But we-"

"I don't care," Alfred's eyes sparkled mischievously. "C'mon, let me cook for you."

After a moment of Arthur's hesitation, the quarterback grabbed his wrist and pulled him in.

"Your house is beautiful," Arthur said cordially as he was dragged in. "It's-"

"Big, huh?" Alfred finished airily, letting go of Arthur's arm and turning to face him. They were right in the doorway in between the living room and the kitchen.

"I was actually going to say empty," Arthur blinked. "You live here all by your lonesome?"

"Yeah."

Arthur looked wonderingly at the high ceilings and big rooms for moment before patting Alfred's chest awkwardly, simultaneously glancing at his watch.

"It's rather late for cooking, don't you think?"

"Right. Do you want some coffee or somethin'?"

"Tea would be nice. If you have it," Arthur added hurriedly, clearing his throat and following Alfred. He sat on a bar stool next to an island in the middle of the kitchen. Alfred groped in a cupboard for a moment before returning with a few tea packets and a jar of coffee beans.

"Hm, Earl Grey or Green Tea?"

"Earl Grey, thank you."

The whole kitchen seemed rather modern, but cold and unused, Arthur noted. It didn't fit Alfred at all. Finally Alfred handed him a mug, leaning against a counter and sipping his own.

"This is ironic," Alfred broke the silence. He was grinning that crazy grin that always seemed to be there. Arthur had forgotten how much he missed that grin.

"What is?" Arthur's voice was muffled by his mug.

"I'm servin' the bartender." Alfred said with a little hand gesture. Arthur couldn't help but bark out a laugh.

"I guess you are."

Now the smile was tamer, shyer. Alfred looked down into his coffee.

"I knew it," he mumbled.

"Knew what?"

"When I first met you, I knew your laugh would be amazin'. Like gettin' a present on Christmas mornin'."

Alfred sipped at his mug and avoided eye contact for a moment, before finally adding: "And it is. Every time."

Arthur felt that if he opened his mouth, his already melted heart would pour out of it. So he blushed and drank his tea. Alfred eventually broke the silence once again.

"Artie, you never told me about your brother. John."

The name alone made Arthur's head reel with emotions.

"Dead, Alfred," Arthur sighed quietly. "My brother is dead. Automobile accident." He could feel the lump forming in his throat. John had crashed his car in crazed drunk anger. And Arthur's last words to him had been angry. Before Arthur knew it, Alfred was taking his mug away from him and pulling him into an urgent hug. He hadn't realized he needed the hug until he rested his head on Alfred's shoulder, and he hadn't even realized he was crying until Alfred started wiping away the tears.

"Bollocks, I'm sorry," he choked, furiously rubbing his eyes. "I'm usually not so much of a baby."

"I don't blame you. Hell, I would cry every day if Mattie..." Alfred trailed off and just rocked Arthur against him. "What are we going to do with you, Arthur? A lonely bartender, huh?"

"Git." Arthur mumbled into Alfred's chest, chuckling.

"How about we watch a movie? Something violent?"

"How about a scary one?" Arthur slipped his hand into Alfred's and smiled weakly.

* * *

"Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, don't go down there!" Alfred shrieked, burying his head into Arthur's neck. Arthur giggled and patted Alfred, who had long since worked his way into the Englishman's lap.

"It's not that scary, love...Ooh, she got stabbed. That's not the best of things, is it now?"

"Protect me, Artie," Alfred whined into Arthur's shoulder.

"Oi." Alfred looked up. "How about you forget the movie?"

Arthur leaned in close and grinned. He'd never had so much fun in one night. He was glad he had decided to pay Alfred a surprise visit. Alfred caught on and winked, but the effect of sultriness was shattered when he jumped and screamed at the ghost appearing on the television screen. Arthur rolled his eyes and pulled Alfred's head back to him. He really couldn't believe that he'd taken all this time to get up the nerve to talk to Alfred F Jones, star rookie quarterback...and complete wuss when it came to horror movies.

Eventually Alfred relaxed into Arthur's kiss, and he could sense the American forgetting the movie. As if just realizing that he was sitting on Arthur's lap, he slowly rotated his hips and legs so that he was straddling the Brit. Arthur absolutely could not take that, though. In a sudden movement, he flipped them so that he was instead on top of Alfred, pressing their chests together.

"No fair," Alfred said faintly, but any protest he might have had died on his lips as Arthur started to kiss slowly down his jaw and neck. It was happening so fast, bittersweet fast, addictingly fast. When Arthur got to the hem of Alfred's shirt, he grasped it, ready to pull it off...when, the phone rang.

"Jus' Mattie." Alfred said hoarsely, kicking his phone away without a glance at it and tugging at the buttons on Arthur's shirt. Finally, both shirts had been flung carelessly to the floor. Arthur was just getting back in the rhythm of kissing Alfred when the phone buzzed again.

"Don't care," Alfred whispered at the worried look on Arthur's face. When the phone gave another

indignant little ring and Arthur turned to look at it, Alfred bit the other's neck playfully, leaving a small red mark. Arthur yelped, but grinned and went back to work slowly kissing down the base of Alfred's throat, hands running down his warm, muscular chest.

"Hmm, knock at the door." Alfred muttered, sitting up slightly. Arthur pushed him back down.

"It's the telly, love. I'm not finished with you."

Alfred grunted softly and their lips met hungrily again. But only for a moment...there was a more

ferocious set of rapping this time, followed by a doorbell ringing.

"Definitely the door," Alfred said, but the two delayed moving from their comfortable spot, panting, bare chests pressed together. There was more knocking. Arthur sighed and swung one leg around, so that Alfred could stand.

"You haven't a shirt on!" Arthur called after him, watching as he trotted towards the door. He saw him open it, and then-

"ALFRED F. JONES, YOU SCARED ME HALF TO FUCKING DEATH," came a screech, followed by a loud door slam. Arthur stood, peeking over the couch. There he saw Alfred shouting at...himself! He shook his head. No, one of the Alfreds- the shouting one -had a shirt and a jacket on, and was wagging a motherly finger at the shirtless Alfred. The jacketed one had slightly longer hair and a wild curl that stuck out near his cheek- and had darker eyes, too, as well as glasses shoved hastily on his face and a duffel bag slung on his shoulder. This must be Matthew, Arthur realized with a start. Alfred's brother.

"-SO YOU COULDN'T HAVE CALLED IN THE AIRPORT OR SOMETHING?!"

"M-Mattie, there's-"

"ALFRED I WAS SO WORRIED, I ALMOST- oh!" Matthew jumped as he noticed forest green eyes watching him. "H-hello."

"Hi." Arthur walked around to the other side of the couch, and into the foyer. Arthur could see the gears turning in Matthew's brain as his eyes jumped from one shirtless man to the other, before finally resting on the love bite on Arthur's neck.

"You..." Matthew cleared his throat and held out a shaking hand. "You must be Arthur."

* * *

Arthur filled up a teakettle with water, happy for the task Alfred had given him to keep him busy. The introduction to his twin had been terribly awkward, after all. After a moment of watching the water boil, though, Arthur remembered that he hadn't asked what kind of tea Matthew would like. He sighed and walked over to the shut door where Alfred and Matthew had decided to continue their heated conversation. Arthur was about to open it when he heard his name used. He pressed a curious ear to the door.

"-stupid, illogical, and childish, for inviting him HERE to your HOUSE, Alfred! Do you realize the press would have a field day with this?!"

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"You would be the first openly gay quarterback! Ever! And a rookie, besides! You could get fired. Arthur could get fired. The paparazzi would never, EVER, leave you alone!"

"But Mattie..."

"Don't you 'but Mattie' me, mister. You're treading on thin ice, and you know it."

Tell him, Alfred, Arthur thought. Tell him how much I mean to you, how much you mean to me. Arthur pressed his cheek harder to the door.

"Mattie..." Alfred sighed. "Matt, Arthur is nothing. A fling. You know I had a hard day."

Arthur's heart dropped like a stone, but he couldn't tear his ear from the door.

"Are you sure?"

"You know me," Alfred laughed. "In it for the sex."

"Right. The spot on the hill, I should've known," his brother replied with a similar laugh.

He knew? Matthew knew about the hillside where they shared their first kiss? No, no this couldn't be. Actually, it could. Alfred F. Jones, star rookie quarterback, able to have his way with any old pub owner.

"Do you hear that?" Arthur was vaguely aware of Alfred saying.

"Yeah, sounds like the teakettle whistling."

Arthur jumped away from the door as someone pushed it open and two blonde men appeared. Alfred's face turned white.

"Artie?"

"Don't call me that," Arthur sneered, hands balling up. Matthew was startled, but nonchalant. Alfred looked absolutely terrified.

"How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough," he replied curtly, trying to fight the word vomit that was coming on, but then it spilled: "And to think, I was falling head over heels for you, Alfred. I wanted to learn every little thing about you, wanted to wake up and see your face, to know your every little quirk. I served you beer, I watched you flirt. I shared John with you! I haven't talked about him since the day he DIED, a YEAR ago. Argh!" Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper, thrusting it into Alfred's hands. Alfred looked at it with already wide blue eyes.

"What's this?"

"My citizenship request. I was going to turn it in tonight, I came here to celebrate. But after this 'fling', I'd much rather fuck off to England!" Arthur stormed to the door, turning around only once to shout: "Rip it up, star rookie quarterback, because that's what you're best at! Destroying things!"

To top it off, Arthur slammed the door melodramatically and ran into the night, succumbing to the tears and hiccuping as he clambered into his car.

He wondered how fast he could get a flight away from this awful place.


	5. Chapter 5

Two buses and a short walk later, Arthur arrived home. Finally, he thought as he curled up on his bed. He could cry in peace. He could mourn all that was and could've been with he and Alfred. Alfred, the egotistical bastard. Alfred, the- Arthur's phone rang and he had only to look at the name and groan. Alfred, the man who had left sixteen, going on seventeen, voicemails.

Back in the small English town he grew up in, people weren't so open with emotions. Especially such...odd ones, as Arthur had. He had had a boyfriend or two after moving here, in college that is, and he had broken up with them after much more time spent together than he had even known Alfred.

But as Arthur closed his eyes, all he could see was a mocking smile, winking blue eyes, messy golden hair...what exactly was love? Was it that feeling one got in the pit of their stomach? Or was it the admiring words voiced to each other, the exchange of rings and presents? Arthur pressed shaking fingers to his temples, trying to make the stoic, sensible man he once was come back. Where was the man who didn't believe in such silly things? There is no time for love. There's too much work to be done. Even so, Arthur did not stand to balance his checkbook or do his taxes, as he often did as a nervous habit. He just watched the ceiling and listened to the noises of the city. It was nice doing nothing for a change, but he could not help but wonder what the traitorous Alfred was doing without him...

"Talk to me, Al."

Alfred stuck his lips in a childish pout, eyes watering.

"Come on, Alfred," Matthew persisted. "It's not like it's the end of the world."

Alfred turned his head away and sniffed haughtily.

"Really, you were the one who said Arthur was just a fling."

"I said that to make you happy," Alfred finally looked at his brother, choking on his words in the effort of not crying.

"You know I can't multitask. I couldn't keep you an' Arthur happy at the same time..."

Matthew was reminded how immature his twin really was. He sat next to Alfred on the couch with a sigh.

"Why didn't you go after him, eh?" he said quietly, a Canadianism slipping out.

"What would I SAY, Matt?" Alfred whined, putting his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry I'm an ass?" Matthew giggled, only to be hushed by a piercing glare from his brother.

"I'm serious! I have no idea how to get him back! I..." Alfred looked distant. "I think I love him."

The two sat in silence for a moment. Matthew thought long and hard about his own lover, his lovely French penpal he hadn't yet met.

"Okay," Matthew clapped his hands. "So, here's the plan..."

Arthur moaned at the sound of his phone ringing in the morning. Expecting it to be Alfred's twentieth voicemail, he glanced at the screen momentarily, just to confirm- oh! An unlisted number. He picked it up, trying to clear the sleep from his voice.

"Hello?"

"Arthur?"

Arthur growled at the familiar voice, finger hovering over the end call button before-

"No! Wait! Arthur, it's Matt!"

He paused for a moment, conflicted. Surely talking to his /twin/ wasn't the same thing...although their voices did sound frighteningly similar...

"What do you want?" he answered warily.

"Can I just apologize profusely for a moment for my behavior last night?"

"Hmph."

"I know, you don't want to talk to me or my brother right now. But hear me out, you two have some unfinished business. Will you give Alfred a chance to plead his case?"

Arthur's head and his heart screamed two completely different things, so he just made a noncommittal noise and said:

"I don't know..."

"Arthur, if you don't do this I will never hear the end of it," Matthew said desperately. "Please? Just talk to him?"

"Fine. But he says anything stupid..." Arthur began with a sigh.

"You have my permission to dump his sorry ass!" squealed Matt. "Meet him at your bar at four?"

"Alright."

"Thank you!"

Click. Arthur set the phone down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. This was crazy. He had his heart broken, and he was going to see the one who broke it after only a measly nights' sleep? Well...he ought to take a shower first.

Arthur's breath clouded in the cold fall air, and he nervously crossed his arms and leant against his car. While it was colder than the arctic circle out there, Arthur was hesitant to go inside. What would he say after his little diva tantrum last night? He ran his hand through his hair, and after a huffy sigh and a few profanities he began to walk to the stadium gates. His footsteps clicked in the empty concrete halls, and he chickened out momentarily and turned the opposite direction from his pub- out into the seating.  
Arthur sat in a plastic stadium seat for what seemed like ages, staring at the lonely faux grass and weighing the pros and cons of mustering up the courage to see Alfred.

"Egads, man," Arthur exhaled to himself, "Just go see the bloody football player."  
He disobeyed his own advice for another heartbeat before standing wearily and checking his watch. 4:13. He was late.

"Well, he deserves to wait," Arthur murmured unconvincingly, turning on a heel and walking back to the concessionaires. Heart still fluttering, he took the long way. It would buy him but 5 minutes, but it was better than nothing.

The Englishman was deep in his thoughts when he heard a noise. Arthur jumped and spun around, searching in vain for the source of the sound. He must be the only one here; it was days before the next game, and any practice that would've been held would be over by now. Halfway to dismissing it to nerves, Arthur had turned around again when he heard it once more- a moan, followed by a bump and a giggle.

"Hello?" Arthur craned his neck and followed the sound- away from the direction of the bar, towards Francis' office. "Mr. Bonnefoy...?"

"Ohh," Arthur walked closer to the voice coming from the door, beginning to distinguish definite voices coming from Francis' office. "Mon cher..."

Francis must have a lover in there, Arthur thought to himself, first with a disgusted grimace and then with an understanding smile. He might be doing the same with Alfred in ten minutes, who was he to judge? Arthur nodded and back-pedalled towards the pub, careful not to make a noise, when a keening sigh of Francis' name made him freeze in his tracks.

"F-Francis..." it came again, louder.

Alfred's voice. That was Alfred's voice.

Too broken for thinking, Arthur slammed open the door. The two were pressed against each other, neither with their shirts on. Francis gasped and jumped away from the man perched on the desk, a frighteningly familiar honey blond...  
"YOU..." Arthur shrieked, screwing his eyes shut, unable to form any coherent words over bubbling fury. "YOU..."

A hand was raised towards him calmingly "Arthur, it's not- I'm not-"

"DON'T BOTHER, ALFRED," Arthur tore at his hair, trembling violently. "DON'T. BOTHER."

Arthur stumbled out blindly, sprinting for the door. This couldn't be happening, this wasn't happening.

"Arthur, wait!" someone called after him, but Arthur was out of the gates and halfway to his car before he could even think about opening his eyes. By the time he had finally ripped open the car door and climbed inside, painful thoughts were pouring in.

"Oh Christ," he sobbed as the reality of what had just happened hit him square in the chest. "Oh Christ, oh shit, oh blast, bugger, BLOODY HELL,"

Things began to replay themselves in his mind in random order.  
Getting into a fight with John, trying to rip a rum bottle from his hands.  
Thrusting his citizenship request into Alfred's hands.  
Watching the clouds with his brothers and sister as a child, finding shapes in them.  
Sitting on the park bench in Green Bay, staring out over the beautiful lights.  
Sobbing alone in his room when he got the call from his sister and saw the story on the news that John Kirkland, 26, was killed in an automobile accident.

Sobbing into Alfred's arms as he tried to recount the story...

"God," Arthur gasped for air, taking a sudden left on the road. "I need to f-forget..."  
He pulled into a seedy parking lot. 24 Hr. Liquor Store, flashed the sign out front.

"When was the last time you had a drink, old man?" Arthur asked himself bitterly as he wiped his face and stormed into the store. "Because you're going to forget, alright..."


End file.
